writers block

I lay down in a gently sloping meadow as a light breeze nudges the world along around me. A rustling drone rolls down from the trees behind, mixing with the sound of tall grass brushing against itself, snipping at the air. It’s still early but the light feels like it’s gaining weight, slowing down and shifting red. I expect to hear mothers calling their children home and children begging for a little more play time. I am lucky enough to have nothing to do and no one to cut my playtime short. I am here for as long as I need to be. I am waiting for inspiration.

World in, words out. That’s the basic idea. A two point, one line flow chart from inspiration to creation. But, like the tube map or the circuit diagram, this is an idealised versions of reality; the creative process is a much messier affair. Each experience and stimulus is a cat thrown into a room full of dominoes, kicking off a chain reaction that goes quickly out of control.

Words come to me. Quoted from someone, quoting someone, quoting god. In the midst of life, we are in death. This fragment seems to trigger a change in the world around me. The rustling sound intensifies for a moment, as if the meadow is trying hoist anchor and lift off. The sudden rush of noise conjures a cloud of insects in my head, a swarm of things with too many legs and too many eyes jostling for position in the spaces of my mind. An undulating haze of dark, the blur of translucent wings, dull, black bodies and dangling segmented limbs. The swarm above seems to spark a reaction beneath and with a shudder, the earth throws up a raiding party of skittering, writhing outriders. Thick, bright creatures with inquisitive feelers and antennae explore my extremities. Bile-yellow stripes and shocks of red carapace flash over my exposed skin, searching for a way in. The touch of pin-prick feet, like a taser jolt, locking me in place. The wriggling mass of the bugs from my mind take their first bite and my imagination begins to consume me.